Of Arrows and Burnt Bread
by esoterica
Summary: Halle Mellark is in love with Robin Everdeen who is best friends with Gayle Hawthorne, and that complicates matters. Then the Games happen, and that changes them entirely. AU series of interconnected one-shots. Genderswap.
1. The Miner's Son

_**A warning before we begin: **This fic had originally meant to be a humor!fic. Yeah, no. If you were looking for that, read The Miner's Son and stop there. It gets darker. (And, by darker, I mean: angst, angst, angst.) It is a believable post-Games development, but it may not be what some expect._

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: **AU series of interconnected one-shots. Genderswap rewrite of The Hunger Games._

_Names were chosen based on their meanings and/or phonetic similarities; Robin stands for archer (as in Robin Hood. 'Katniss' is another name for_ _Sagittaria latifolia — arrowhead plant), Gayle is a female variation of Gale, and Halle contains the element hallr meaning 'rock' ('Peeta' is derived from the word petra — rock)._

_Feedback is always welcome._

_**Disclaimer: **I don't own The Hunger Games. Robin, Halle, and Gayle are only my opposite-sex interpretations of Katniss, Peeta, and Gale respectively.  
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* * *

><p><em><strong>Of Arrows and Burnt Bread<strong>_

* * *

><p><em><em><em>somewhere along the way my hopefulness turned to sadness <em>_  
><em>Julian Casablancas, "Out of the Blue"_  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>The Miner's Son<br>**

* * *

><p>The boy with the olive skin and grey eyes enters the bakery, and Halle Mellark's heart flutters inside her chest.<p>

"'Morning," Robin Everdeen murmurs in a spiritless tone as he sets the burlap sack on the wooden counter. Halle pulls the string that loosens it and gingerly examines its contents. "Clean shot through the eye, as usual," she comments, eying the squirrels with an approving gaze.

"I can give you two for it," Halle offers, turning to the racks behind her. On all of them, sit warm loaves of bread that make Robin's mouth water. Halle stands on her tiptoes, and pulls three loaves.

Robin gives her a brief look of suspicion. "You said two," he hedges.

"I can take it back, if you don't want it," she says as she shoves them inside a paper bag.

"No, no, it's okay," he backtracks as she hands him the bag.

Halle empties the burlap sack, and hands it back to Robin. "Okay. Bye, Robin. See you at school."

"Wait!" Robin calls. He digs his hand into the pocket of his tawny pants, and retrieves a single golden coin, which he places on the counter. "I want one of these," he says, pointing at the cookies that are sitting on a platter beside Halle.

"Oh, that for your sister?"

"Yeah."

Halle grabs a cookie — without mentioning it costs more than Robin has to offer — and places it into another paper bag. "Here you go."

"Thanks. Um, see you later."

"Sure."

The bakery door shuts behind Robin, who hastily crosses the dirt road. Halle can breathe again.

It is silly, and her her older brothers — oh, the joy of being an only daughter — constantly mock her about it, but she can't help that she has a crush (as in, a Crush — with a capital C) on Robin Everdeen. (Finn, the alpha asshole, never hesitates to deprecate her for liking a boy from the Seam.)

It's a hopeless situation, though. No, Robin doesn't have a girlfriend or anything. Unless you count Gayle Hawthorne, of course, who is one of the factors that render Halle's situation hopeless. This happens for a multitude of reasons, of which the most important are a) Gayle is also from the Seam, b) Gayle has been Robin's hunting partner for years, and, most importantly, c) Gayle is _gorgeous_. Like, freakin' stunning. She has the same olive skin, dark hair, and grey eyes as most people from the Seam — it's her figure that makes every guy at school ogle at her, though. Long legs and lean arms and toned shoulders; she is everything petite, pale Halle, who still has baby fat on her cheeks, is not. Halle Mellark simply cannot compete with Gayle Hawthorne and she is well aware of that fact. Well, it's not as if Halle is utterly hideous or anything — blonde hair and blue eyes (the norm among the merchant families of District Twelve) can be considered pretty, and boys have been interested in her in the past.

Anyway, the Crush made its first appearance on the first day of school. Riley Hines, the beta asshole, called her stupid and pulled one of her braids. Robin, a proper knight in shining armor, saved the day by shoving the brat and offering to fix it. It ended up looking a tangled mess, but it didn't matter to Halle, because later that day Robin, in his red plaid shirt, would sing the Valley Song in front of the class, and the Crush would be signed and sealed.

Halle spent the following ten years sporadically trying to work up the nerve to talk to him about it — and she'd had plenty of chances - but mostly desperately trying to develop a crush, rather than a Crush — with a capital C, for someone else. And she failed epically.

To define 'epically', about a year ago, Halle decided to try her luck at dating. Most girls her age had started doing it, and she figured she had to start sooner or later and sooner is better than later, so... you get the point. Well, Dave Kirk - the guinea pig of sorts — turned out to be an alpha _alpha_ asshole of the worst kind. He wasn't crude or anything, but he took her to her _family's bakery_. She had her first date _on a bench beside the wheat bread stand. _

Suffice it to say, she never attempted to cast caution to the wind when it came to relationships again.

Halle thinks that things would be so much easier if she lived in the Seam. She feels like an awful person because of that, because people from the Seam are the least fortunate bunch, the weakest link of the District Twelve chain. Men and women spend much of their adult life in the stifling, deadly coal mines; their children strive to keep up with school and aid their struggling families in whatever way they can — usually by signing up for tesserae. Still, deaths caused by starvation are not uncommon an occurrence. How many times have the Peacekeepers been called to pick up another poor soul from the Meadow? Of course, the official cause is always something else, but everyone knows.

If Halle is being honest with herself, though, she'd love to be the girl with the the lean figure and the dark, silky tresses and the grey eyes and the kick-ass hunting skills.

The bell that indicates the entrance of a new customer rings, and she jolts from the stool she's been sitting on. Upon taking a look at the newcomer, she curses under her breath.

_I said I'd love to **be** the girl with the the lean figure and the dark, silky tresses and the grey eyes and the kick-ass huntin__g skills, not be in the same room **with **her_.

"'Morning," she greets cheerfully, as Gayle Hawthorne walks — or rather _stomps _— inside the bakery. Her hunting boots leave mud stains on the wooden floor, and all Halle can think about is that she swept it _less than an hour ago_.

"Sure."

Halle lowers herself onto her stool. "How can I be of —"

"I'm going to be straightforward; what the fuck do you think you're proving?" Gayle snaps, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Her grey eyes burn into Halle's sky-blue ones, who whimpers in defense.

"I'm not sure I'm following," she murmurs, a tint of uncertainty lacing her voice. In fact, she has absolutely _no_ idea why Gayle Hawthorne would forge ahead inside the bakery like that, accusing her of stuff.

Gayle doesn't reply; instead, she drops her burlap sack on the floor and dumps a still warm loaf of bread on the counter. "Robin and I don't need your pity," she spits out.

_Uh... okay._

Halle heaves a sigh._  
><em>

"I wasn't being pitiful," she attempts to explain. "I simply think that two loaves for the squirrels would be an unfair trade. And, anyway, Robin caught the squirrels, I gave him the bread for them. I don't see how any of this is remotely of your concern." She pushes the loaf toward Gayle.

Gayle's eyes turn to slits.

The bell rings again.

"Gayle- Oh _God_, I told you it's _fine_. Hey, Halle, I'm sorry," a flustered Robin says apologetically.

Gayle casts another unstrung glance, then scrambles up the loaf. "Fine," she grunts finally. Robin hoists an arm around her shoulder, mouths - presumably - an apology to Halle, and the two of them walk out of the bakery.

Halle is mostly confused, but she is certain of one thing; Gayle Hawthorne is freakin' terrifying.

And now she has to clean _again_.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: <strong>Month of May  
><em>

_**Side Note:** Updates will be made whenever I have time (oops), because making promises I cannot keep is not my forte.  
><em>


	2. Month of May

_**A/N: **_I dedicate this to the amazing Karina (Cloud-Lover23). _Title and lyrics borrowed from "Month of May" by Arcade Fire, which reflects, in my opinion, the terror of the reaping and the Games. Arcade Fire should be credited for writing my fics — seriously. A continuation of my genderswap AU one-shot series "Of Arrows and Burnt Bread". Reaping through the end of the Games.  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>Month of May, it's a violent thing<em>  
><em>In the city their hearts start to sing<em>  
><em>Well, some people singing sounds like screaming<em>  
><em>Used to doubt it but now I believe it<em>

_Month of May, everybody sing love_  
><em>In the city, watch it from above<em>  
><em>And just when I knew what I wanted to say<em>  
><em>The violent wind blew the wires away<em>

**_–_**

__When you play the game (of thrones), you win, or you die. There is no middle ground.  
><em>George R. R. Martin,_ A Game of Thrones__

* * *

><p><strong>Month of May<strong>

* * *

><p>"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute," a strangled voice screams, and Effie Trinket pauses, staring at the girl that mounted the steps to the stage in disbelief.<p>

Robin Everdeen stands, frozen, in his place — one foot hovering above the ground, face a stiff mask of determination. He was trying to save his sister from the ghastly lady that had called out her name. When the strangled cry blared through the square, he was half-expecting to see his best friend, Gayle Hawthorne, trudging toward Effie Trinket.

Instead, he sees Halle Mellark.

His legs urge him to move forward, to encircle his little sister inside them and remove her from the horror or the reaping. But another part of him — his persisting memory, or perhaps the guilt that gnaws his insides __—__ tells him to run to the blue-eyed girl and haul her back from her untimely death.

He doesn't. Instead, his voice a raspy whisper, he says, "Good luck."

"A __—__ A volunteer?" she gasps in utter surprise. "Your name, deary?"

"Halle Mellark."

"Mellark? Aren't you the little girl's sister?"

"No," Halle allows.

Meanwhile, Robin runs to his little sister. Prim buries her face on the crook of his neck, and her warm tears stain the collar of his pale blue shirt.

Mrs. Everdeen, thrashing through the crowd, dashes to them. Robin gently pushes Prim forward, to the already open arms of their mother, and trudges back to his spot.

Effie is done congratulating Halle.

She half-walks, half-hops to the bowl with the boys' names. She fishes out a piece of paper — the piece of paper that will condemn yet another boy to death.

She unfolds it and opens her mouth to reveal the male tribute of District 12 —

"_I volunteer!_"

**_–_**

_Rain, relentless rain falls from the dull grey above, onto the muddy ground. _

_Robin Everdeen, eleven, trudges behind the merchants' stores, a pile of sopping, frayed dresses that once belonged to his little sister, Prim, until she outgrew them. He had meant to sell them this morning at the market, but no one wanted them. Maybe it was their condition. Most likely, it was their seller._

_Nobody would want to buy anything from a Seam kid. _

_Desperation, cold and steely, burgeons inside his chest. _

_Robin Everdeen's family is starving. After the mining accident that killed his father, his mother had "tuned out". She was there, but... _wasn't_._

_The pile of clothes slips from his hands into the mud below. He doesn't bother to pick them up — no one wants them anyway. _

_He finally collapses outside the baker's._

_The smell of bread being baked — fresh bread he could never afford — burns his nostrils. His gaze falls on the tin trashcan by the door. His tired legs bring him to it. He lifts the lid, hopeless resignation already nestled inside him, and peers into it. _

_Nothing. _

_It's empty. _

_The bakery door is suddenly swung open, a bright orange light surging out, carrying the scent of dough and warm bread._

_A voice barks at him — he barely pays attention to it. He lowers the lid and walks to a tree by the pig pen, where he slumps onto the ground._

_The door opens again. _

_This time, a girl walks out, and she is neither hostile nor angry. She is holding two loaves of bread. Without casting a single glance at his face, she throws them toward Robin. He stares at them in disbelief — like they are a hallucination. Like they will disappear if he reaches out and tucks them under his father's hunting jacket. _

_They don't._

_He snatches them in one swift movement._

_The girl is gone before he can thank her._

_He clings to the worn leather of the jacket and runs._

**_–_**

The desperate cry that echoes through the square belongs to Robin Everdeen.

"_Another _volunteer?" gushes Effie Trinket in her ridiculous Capitol accent. "Well, bravo!"

Indeed, the chaperone of the District Twelve tributes is quite excited today. Excited, because this year's tributes aren't a couple of weeping weaklings. Instead, they are _volunteers_. Volunteering is rather common in the more privileged districts — One and Two, usually, and, occasionally, Four — but _Twelve_? It hasn't seen a volunteer in _decades_. And now two? It must be her lucky day.

Robin steels himself and climbs the steps.

"Your name is, darling?"

"Robin Everdeen."

"My, my, my... You are the brother of that little girl —"

"Prim," he interrupts, chagrined. Effie Trinket had the ease to condemn his sister to death, yet she didn't even care to remember her name.

"Ah, Primrose Everdeen. Oh my! What a day, don't you agree? District Twelve is on a roll today. Come on, people, round of applause, please, for our tributes: Robin Everdeen and Halle Mellark!"

No one claps.

Instead, one by one, the people of District Twelve bring the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to Robin and Halle.

An old but rare gesture. A gesture that means thanks, admiration. A gesture that means goodbye to someone you love.

Mayor Undersee proceeds to read the Treaty of Treason, but neither of them listen. Their gazes fall on each other and stay there, saying things words cannot describe.

* * *

><p>Robin Everdeen casts an inspecting glance at the girl sitting mere feet away.<p>

The tears that just a while ago were gushing miserably down her cheeks are gone, and, if it weren't for her bloodshot eyes, you wouldn't even guess she was crying.

So, it must have been a strategy. The crying, the apparent vulnerability.

Halle Mellark didn't live in the roughest part of District Twelve — and Panem itself — but she was no softie. She grew up with two older brothers, she worked at her family's baker from a young age, and she was quite strong — impressively so for a girl of her physique. However, it _would_ make sense for her to play up the image of the sensitive tribute who volunteered to save a twelve year-old. Many tributes have used this tactic in the past, some with positive result. Johanna Mason is a notable example; she deceived everyone into thinking she was a weakling. In the end, it turned out she was more "effective" than a well-trained Career.

But Robin knew Halle, and that didn't count the few times he had traded with her.

Across from her sits Haymitch Abernathy — their mentor and drinker extraordinaire. She and Robin met him yesterday, when he reeked of cheap liquor and vomit.

"... providing you _are_ alive," Haymitch remarks casually, spreading butter on a slice of toasted bread.

"What are you two talking about?" Robin asks as he settles onto a plush armchair, next to Halle.

"Finding shelter inside the arena."

"Since when are you so helpful, Haymitch?"

His sot of a mentor pulls a steel flask from his robe and pours a clear liquor into his cup. "Gimme a break, handsome," he mumbles drunkenly. "I'll come around."

Some mentor, Haymitch is. This is why tributes from Twelve usually end up dead before the Cornucopia bloodbath draws in. Because _he_ would rather drink like a fish.

Robin jams the bread knife between Haymitch's thumb and index finger.

A gasp of shock escapes Effie Trinket's mouth. The usually composed and curt chaperone barks, "That is _mahogany_!"

* * *

><p>"So, Halle... Is there a special lad back home?" asks Caesar Flickerman.<p>

Halle Mellark, clad in a shimmering orange dress — the subtle orange of sunrise, her favorite color; a living candlelight — lowers her head and peeks from behind her eyelashes. "No," she says, though her voice doesn't sound believable at all.

Caesar flashes a brilliant, pearly white grin. "I don't believe that for a second."

Halle hesitates. "Well..." Cheering from the crowd. "... there _is_ this one boy. I've known him since forever, and I've kind of had a crush on him ever since." Her cheeks turn a deep crimson.

"He have a girlfriend?"

"No — I mean, I don't think so. A lot of girls like him." She sighs. "It doesn't really matter, though. I doubt he cares much for me." There's a murmur of understanding in the crowd — unrequited love they can relate to. Robin Everdeen raises his face, his interest piqued.

"I'll tell you what to do." Caesar motions for her to approach, as if he's telling her a secret — a secret for the whole of Panem to hear. Halle leans forward. "You win this thing, alright? Then he'll have no choice but to pay attention. Right, folks?"

A big round of applause from the audience.

Halle slumps her shoulders and drops her gaze to the floor. "Winning... won't help my case," she laments.

Caesar tilts his head in confusion. "And why is that?" he breathes, genuine interest lacing the tone of his voice.

"You see... he came here with me."

Stunned silence.

Robin sits, motionless. Some of the tributes snicker snidely.

Caesar winces. "Oh, that is a piece of bad luck."

"That's quite an understatement."

He pats Halle's shoulder. "My poor, poor Halle... Is this why you volunteered to save his sister?" She nods bleakly. "I'm sorry, but this is all the time we have. I wish you the best of luck, Halle, Girl on Fire."

The interview ends — the audience roars as she sits down beside him, focusing straight ahead, fidgeting in her seat.

It is Robin's turn now. He takes slow, careful steps across the stage. Caesar Flickerman shakes his hand cordially and sits down.

"And now, the Boy on Fire. Hello, hello." He flashes another of his signature smiles — it is almost as if a Gamemaker is managing his facial expressions from backstage, each time picking a different one from the giant screens abaft. "So, Robin," he begins. "The Capitol must be quite a change from District Twelve. What's impressed you most since you arrived here?"

He stares at him blankly. His stylist, Cinna, told him to be honest.

_Just imagine you're talking to me._

His eyes flick to the audience, searching for his familiar face. When they find him, he nods back reassuringly.

"The lamb stew," he replies honestly.

Caesar laughs delightedly, and the audience begins to join in. "The one with the dried plums?" he asks. "Oh, I eat it by the bucketful." His face turns serious now. "You have been the surprise underdog this year, Robin. An eleven in training — e-l-e-v-e-n. The opening ceremonies costumes. Your unexpected volunteering at the reaping. But I think the crowd over here is interested in the more recent developments, aren't you now?" The audience fervently agrees, and Caesar continues, "Your fellow tribute just proclaimed her love for you in front of the entire country."

Robin feels his cheeks burn. "I, uh —" He casts a glance at Halle. "— am speechless."

"It must really be a shock," Caesar comments.

"But incredibly happy, as well," Robin interrupts. Confusion is imprinted on Caesar's face. "I have something to say, too." Caesar moves forward, intrigued. "I volunteered... for her." The crowd draws a collective breath. "To protect her in the arena."

"So you're saying her feelings aren't unrequited."

Robin shakes his head.

The truth is, they aren't. Because Robin is entirely certain there are no feelings to be returned or ignored.

Halle's confession was part of her strategy, but this is a game two can play.

"You know what they say: love blooms when you don't expect it. The Girl and Boy on Fire, the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve...," he mourns. "Now, what about your little sister? What did you tell her, after the reaping?"

"I told her that I would win. For her."

"Of course you did. Unfortunately, our time is up, folks. Robin Everdeen, I wish you the best of luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

Thundering, deafening clapping erupts, muffling Caesar's voice.

Oh, they are certainly unforgettable.

The camera is trained on Robin and Halle's faces throughout the anthem, separated by mere inches — inches that can never be bridged.

* * *

><p>"I told you, I know what I'm doing," a girl's voice stresses.<p>

"You'd better."

"Come on."

It is Halle Mellark's voice that instructs the pack of Career tributes to follow a "trail" on the ground, a trail that leads wherever the thing they are looking for is.

_Who_ they are looking for, to be precise.

And that 'who' is Robin.

Robin Everdeen, strapped on a pine tree fork, thirty feet up in the air.

"Let's kill her now, Cato — we're only wasting time."

"After we find _him_."

Robin is certain of it — Halle's proclamation of love was a canard. But betrayal stings. What was she trying to achieve, anyway? Was she trying to make people warm up to her, perhaps even gain more sponsors? How is she achieving that by teaming up with the Careers?

**_–_**

_Halle has never been to the Hob before. If it weren't for her idiot brother, Finn, she wouldn't be here today._

_But she is, loaves of bread in hand, walking briskly through the crowd of salesmen and coal miners. Her blond hair and blue eyes looks so out of place here — some people shoot her strange, hostile looks, but she stares straight ahead._

_Today she is trading with Ripper, the one-armed woman who sells white liquor. Damn Finn, and damn lost bets._

_"Three," someone haggles. _

_Halle turns to the general direction of the voice. It belongs to Robin Everdeen — a squirrel hangs from his belt, and his arms are crossed over his chest._

_The middle-aged man who sells bread at the Hob cringes. "This is my final offer, Everdeen. If you don't like it, not my problem." The loaves on his counter are flat and dense __— Robin's squirrel is definitely superior to the entire lot.__  
><em>

_"I can give you three," Halle stammers out. _

_Robin stares at the loaves of bread in Halle's armful. "These_ —_ These are fresh," he croaks in disbelief. _

_Halle inspects the squirrel. "Clean shot through the eye. You've improved," she notes._

_"Thanks."_

_And, like that, Halle Mellark earns a clout on the back of the neck from her older brother, and, for the first time in months, Robin Everdeen has warm, fine bread for lunch._

_**_–_**_

The rustling sound of leaves being stomped on fades away, and Robin climbs down from the tree.

This is a game, he reminds himself, and two can play it.

He is wrong, of course.

For Halle, this is anything but a game.

Robin said that he volunteered to protect _her_, and he did that on live television. Instead, he ran — he ran when she begged him not to. ("Listen to me — to hell with Haymitch's advice. Wait for me," she said. "We can do this if we try — together.") She banded together with the Careers on instinct — it was her last resort. District Twelve would hate her now, that was for sure, but they don't mean much at this point.

This is a life or death match.

You win, or you die.

* * *

><p>When they find him, she's with them.<p>

"Oh, let him. He _will_ have to come down, eventually. And when he does, we get him."

Halle doesn't sleep that night.

The hum from the tracker jacker nest gives Robin an idea.

Chaos ensues.

But she saves him.

He doesn't know why, but she does.

In the fog of the tracker jacker venom, he sees her, thrashing through the trees, screaming for him to _run_. He can't be entirely sure it isn't in fact a hallucination.

He wakes, eventually, in a foreign part of the forest.

It takes a few hours of trial and error, and he finally finds herbs for the tracker jacker stings. He hunts — he has a bow and arrow now, took it from Glimmer — and he thinks he _could_ have a chance.

* * *

><p>He hears the blood-curdling scream while looking for game.<p>

He hasn't heard it before, but it sounds so familiar_._ His heart plummets to his stomach — it sounds like Prim.

He dashes through the foliage, toward Rue, but he can't stop One from hurling the spear to her.

The boy is dead before he sets his foot on the ground.

It doesn't take a healer to know that he can't save her. He stays with her, anyway.

"Hey," he whispers into the ear of the dying girl. "You — You're going to be alright, I promise."

"No, I won't." The girl's lips curl up in a bitter smile. "You should win," she rasps, bestirring to make herself audible.

"Why is that?"

"You're good." A beat. "Can you sing?"

Robin Everdeen _doesn't_ sing. He stopped when his father died. As he grew up, he grew out of it, as well. Like the toys he used to play with as a child. He can't be bothered with such petty occupations as singing.

He nods, and he sings, anyway.

_"Deep in the meadow, under the willow_  
><em>A bed of grass, a soft green pillow<em>  
><em>Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes<em>  
><em>And when again they open, the sun will rise.<em>

_"Here it's safe, here it's warm_  
><em>Here the daisies guard you from every harm<em>  
><em>Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true<em>  
><em>Here is the place where I love you.<em>

_"Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_  
><em>A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray<em>  
><em>Forget your woes and let your troubles lay<em>  
><em>And when again it's morning, they'll wash away.<em>

_"Here it's safe, here it's warm_  
><em>Here the daisies guard you from every harm<em>  
><em>Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true<em>  
><em>Here is the place where I love you.<em>

The last line is muffled by the rustling of leaves and the mellow gust of the wind.

"Find Halle," whispers Rue.

* * *

><p>He waits for it.<p>

He waits for the blow of the cannon and her face in the sky.

She is not his ally, certainly not his friend. But he doesn't want the last time he sees her to be on a fading photograph in the dim light of the night. He doesn't want the last time he has spoken to her to be on the roof of the Training Center, reducing her to another tribute he's never known and would never care about.

It never appears.

He doesn't know whether he ought to be relieved or chagrined. Part of him — an overwhelming part, if he's being completely honest — doesn't want her to die.

But he doesn't want to be the one to kill her, should the time come.

**_–_**

_She's there the next day._

_Walking about at school, chatting casually with her friends — merchants' kids, of course. At some point, he is certain she's looking at him, but when he focuses his gaze on her, she's giggling at a friend's joke. _

_He ought to thank her, he thinks. It should be easier. _

_He walks into her family's baker on Sunday morning, game in burlap sack — first time hunting on his own. It's not his father's usual clean shot through the eye, but it's the only rabbit he shot today, so it will have to suffice._

_Mr. Mellark is behind the counter, arranging different kinds of bread on the inclined wooden racks set on the wall. A young Halle is sitting on a stool, her legs swinging back and forth, tapping against the stilts._

_"Hello, Mr. Mellark. I have game for trade," Robin says politely._

__The baker inspects the rabbit. "I can give you two," he offers finally.  
><em>_

_"T __—_ Two?" Robin gasps. He knows his rabbit isn't worth as much _—_ in fact, he'd be perfectly happy with a stale loaf of bread. He's eaten far worse, anyway.__

_"Take it or leave it," Mr. Mellark confirms with a smile._

_Robin hastily murmurs his thanks as the generous baker shoves two freshly baked loaves inside a paper bag. _

_He never looks at the blue-eyed girl on the stool, her legs swinging back and forth, tapping against the stilts.  
><em>

**_–_**

Then something totally unexpected happens.

There has been a rule change, and now _two_ tributes instead of one can win. Here's the catch: they both need to be from the same district.

This is all the motivation Robin needs to dart through the forest, in search of the blue-eyed girl.

This time, he has to look better.

* * *

><p>When he finds her, skin burning up and breath that resemble moans barely escaping through her gritted teeth chapped lips, he breathes a sigh of redemptive relief.<p>

"You here to finish me off, handsome?" she rasps, using Haymitch's pejorative nickname.

It takes a while to gain her trust — if Robin is honest with himself, he thinks she should never have given it to him, in the first place. After all, she saved his life once. She saved his sister's life.

"Why did you volunteer?" she croaks in the haze of the fever. The answer, just out of grasp, hangs on the tip of his tongue. "You didn't do it to save me."

He contemplates this for a moment. "No," he finally allows. "I did it for the bread."

**_–_**

_He snatches them in one swift movement. The girl is gone before he can thank her. _

_He clings to the worn leather of the jacket and runs._

**_–_**

The amusement in her voice doesn't sound forced when she asks, "The bread? Robin, that was an eternity ago."

"I know. But I still haven't thanked you."

"You are now. You're saving my life — or, at least, you are trying." She laughs bitterly. "Dying isn't worth it," she says after a while.

"What do you mean?"

"Suicide won't repay whatever you think you owe me."

He can't think of what to say, so, instead, he presses his cold lips on her burning with fever ones.

"I was waiting for you to do that, you know," she murmurs when he pulls away.

* * *

><p>Only one can live.<p>

He was sure of it — part of himself knew already when they announced the "rule change".

Halle clasps the knife.

**–**

_"The only thing they want is a good show, Robin," Gayle says desperately. Her hands rest on his cheeks, barely grazing his hair. "It's all they want. And you gotta give it to them."_

_"They have it already. Twenty-three of us will die for their entertainment. Isn't that enough?"_

_Gayle looks at him bleakly. "You're going to win, I know it. You can hunt _—_ you can kill."_

_"Animals —" _

_"How different can that be, really?"_

**–**

Robin aims the arrow, pulls the string.

"Shoot me," she implores as she tosses the knife into the lake. "Shoot me and go home." Tears threaten to gush down her cheeks. "Become a victor. Shoot me."

His weapons fall to the ground with a thud. Steely determination blossoms inside his heart, and it doesn't falter.

"No. I won't be their victor."

"They need to have a victor —"

"No, they don't. Why should they?"

The Capitol doesn't deserve a victor.

He pulls the nightlock from his leather pouch.

* * *

><p>"Was it?"<p>

His response is silence.

"_Was_ it?"

"I don — I don't know."

"Well, let me know when you do."

He watches her walk back to the train, blond tresses waving behind her back.

**_–_**

_"I don't want to be another piece in their games."_

_"What_ _do you mean?"_

_Halle bites her lip. "I don't want them to _—_" She struggles to find the right words. __"I don't want them to own me."_

_Robin_ _can't afford to think this way. Sure, there is something admirable — honorable, even, noble_ — _in the way she defies the Capitol, refuses its control. But it's too easy to be moral before the instinct for survival kicks in. _

_"Do you mean you won't kill?" he asks finally._

_"Honestly? I probably will — survival instinct. Anyone would," she admits. "But I don't want them to change me. I want to still be me. When I die, I want to still be me." A beat. "Listen to me — to hell with Haymitch's advice. Wait for me," she says. "We can do this if we try _—_ together." She tentatively leans forward, as if to place a kiss on his lips.  
><em>

_Robin raises his gaze to meet hers. "This is a TV show, Halle," he says. "We're not allies, we're certainly not friends. Let's not pretend we are anything more than adversaries." He stands up. "And I don't want to be the one to kill you."  
><em>

**_–_**

The Girl on Fire — the girl with the bread, this is what _he_ calls her — is drifting away. Not for long — they will have to keep the star-crossed lovers façade for a little longer, until the cameras go away.

But he will have to let go, eventually, and there is nothing he dreads more than that.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: <strong>A Nation of Slaves_

_**Side Note:** Hooray for movie references! You know what? I actually really like this. I really intended this story to be light and fun, but the events of the Games simply cannot. As per usual, date for next update is up in the air as I'm currently working on a Twilight multi-chapter fic _*hides in shame from the fandom*_ and have school obligations. Seriously, folks. I used to be top of my class, but fic writing is taking its toll on me.  
><em>


	3. A Nation of Slaves

_**A/N:** This fic gets darker by the update. Title borrowed from the homonymous song by Joseph Arthur.  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>sleeping is giving in,<em> _no matter what the time is_ / s_leeping is giving in,_ _so lift those heavy eyelids  
>Arcade Fire. "Rebellion (Lies)"<em>

* * *

><p><strong>A Nation of Slaves<strong>

* * *

><p>"You aren't happy. Why aren't you happy?"<p>

_Because they took our lives away. Because they feast on death._

"I am happy."

Halle Mellark heaves a sigh and drops her gaze to the floor.

"I know you don't like me —" _Don't. _"— but at least don't lie to me."

Robin Everdeen's nightmares are usually about the Games.

Sometimes, though, there are only faces. Faces pulled back in grotesque masks. Faces that taunt him:

_Look — we can take away your children to our televised slaughterhouse, and there is _nothing_ you can do about it. They will perish, deprived of their innocence. And the best part? You get to _watch_._

He wakes up to the sound of his muffled screaming against the pillow.

"What do you want me to say? I hate them."

She understands, of course.

She takes a sip of tea — the steaming liquid burns her tongue, but she doesn't flinch. She's gotten used to the pain — and releases the cup from the steely grip wherein it had been trapped.

"I hate them, too."

"I owe them nothing," Robin stresses desperately.

"No, you don't."

A few silent moments pass.

"Thanks for the tea," he finally murmurs, standing up. He stretches his tired limbs. "I never said I didn't like you," he adds as he shuts the door to Halle's house behind him.

Until the cameras left, they simply clung to each other. They said nothing, didn't need to. Part of him told him it was their common experiences, the horror of the arena. But he couldn't ignore the strange hunger that was ignited in him like a spark every time her skin grazed his.

It is a hunger he never feels with anyone else. Not even with Gayle, with whom he shares the same searing fire, the same hatred that is kindled with rage.

* * *

><p>Halle has grown stronger and weaker, at the same time.<p>

Winning the Hunger Games ought to make you a true victor, in all aspects of your life. Or, it is marketed this way, at least. Strong and powerful, wealthy and sated, admired and respected. Halle thinks this is because winners usually come from the more privileged districts, One and Two, where victory is relentlessly pursued by all and is usually achieved.

But what about the aftermath? Halle killed during those Games. She killed, and she betrayed Robin, even if she did so to protect him. She was crowned Victor of the 74th Hunger Games, and now she has to live with whatever that implies.

She will have to watch children from her district fall — they would fall to satiate the bloodlust of the Capitol.

How long until they are _full_?

* * *

><p>During the six months before the Victory Tour — because we can't let the districts forget the impact of the Games, can we? — they begin to drift apart.<p>

At first, it is Halle who fends off (not like Robin's mother did. Halle simply fends of from _him_). Robin can't really blame her. The star-crossed lovers epic _was_ for the Games, after all, wasn't it? A strategy. A canard. And he should be happy, because it worked.

It is Gayle who kisses him on a Sunday morning, after their usual hunting and poaching in the woods. It is sudden and unexpected, but it isn't unwelcome.

So it is him who takes her against the thick bark of a pine tree.

"Leave with me," she says, still laying on the forest floor — naked — as Robin buttons up his jeans.

"I can't."

Prim. Mother.

"Halle."

_Halle._

She tells him to go fuck himself, because _she_ is the one who breaths the stifling air of the mines, and _she_ is the one who has almost forgotten what sunlight feels like on her skin.

He doesn't tell her that _he_ is the one trapped in Twelve. _He_ is the one who can't run anymore. He's known this ever since he pulled out those berries.

Maybe he hoped they would kill him, then.

* * *

><p>President Snow arrives unexpectedly one day.<p>

Robin walks into his Victor's home — he hates that place — and she is sitting there, waiting for him. Halle.

His voice is a raspy whisper. "Halle? What are you — ?" He freezes in his place, because something is off. There is an impalpable scent hovering, making the muggy air in the dimly lit room all the more unbearable.

It is the scent of roses mingled with something foul.

"Hello, Robin."

His voice is curt, polite but subtly threatening. It is dripping poison, you'd think.

"President Snow," Robin stammers out, intending his voice to sound surer than it does.

"Please, have a sit," the president instructs, rather than requests. As though this isn't Robin's house. As though it belongs to him. And it does, in a sick, twisted way. Everything — and everyone — belongs to him.

Robin complies. "To what do we owe the honor of your visit?" he asks as he sits on the chair that is the farthest away from the president. He is only slightly sarcastic.

Snow pulls his lips back in a sinister grimace, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. "I believe you know already," he says, his tone cool and formal. There is a small pause, as if to add a dramatic effect. "A week ago," Snow begins, "you slid under a loose stretch of the electrified fence that separates District 12 from what lies beyond. Correct?"

"I can explain—"

"_Correct?_"

Robin swallows a lump that had settled in his throat. "Correct," he says.

"Forty-five minutes later, a girl did the same," the president continues. "Poaching doesn't concern me, Robin Everdeen. I can always have the culprit flogged, hanged, or shot. I can always... _replace_ unreliable employees. Do you know what I _can't_ do, Robin?" Robin shakes his head. "I can't quench a fire that has already been ignited. Not on my own, at least."

"I don't think I understand—"

"Incest," Snow interrupts yet again, "isn't a severely punished crime. It is, however, frowned upon. Especially in the case of a Victor. A _taken_ one, at that."

Halle flinches; Robin silently curses himself for being so, _so_ stupid.

"What is your opinion on the matter, Ms. Mellark?"

Halle blinks. "I—" Her gaze falls on Robin, pale as a sheet. "I don't believe a word. Robin is close to his cousin. It must have been a misunderstanding." She pauses, uncertain of her words herself.

"Oh, my dear Ms. Mellark," Snow says endearingly. "I believe every person in this room knows this is a lie. A poorly constructed lie."

"What do you want me to do?" Robin asks.

"I want you to convince _me_." The president arises. "Thank you for the tea, Ms. Mellark."

A moment of stiff silence, as Halle escorts the president to the door.

"I should be going," Halle allows as she pushes her chair back toward the table. It makes a horrible screeching sound against the wooden floor.

"Wait!" Robin calls.

"Your personal life doesn't concern me, Robin," she says, a hint of sadness in her voice. "But when it compromises—"

"Compromises who? Prim? Your brothers?" Halle tightens her grip around the back of a chair. "We've already done that. By winning. Our victory was an anomaly — it was never meant to happen. One of us ought to be dead now, and that didn't happen."

"Oh. So you think that screwing your pretend cousin in the woods beyond the fence will make matters better?" Halle hedges with her trembling voice. "We were given a chance to prove Snow wrong, prove the _Capitol_ wrong — that our suicide attempt wasn't an act of rebellion, that it was an act of... of unconditional love."

"Well, maybe it shouldn't have been labeled as such. I mean—" He struggles internally, searches into his mind for the right words. "Maybe it _should_ be seen as an act of rebellion," he enunciates carefully.

Halle stares at him. "Rebellion..." Her eyes seem as though they are looking at him, without really _seeing_ him. "Robin, people _did_ rebel in the past," she reminds him, "and because of that we're _here_."

Robin contemplates this for a moment. Yes, it is true. The Hunger Games are a punishment, retaliation for a past rebellion. But something, _something_ must have pushed these people to fight against the totalitarian regime the Capitol endorses and always has endorsed. Yes, they failed, ultimately. Yes, the repercussions were beyond severe — they were crippling, horrific, terrifying. Does that mean they have to withstand that? To go about with their lives without blinking an eye at the injustice?

No, it certainly doesn't.

Robin won't blame the people who simply couldn't bear being stomped on by the more privileged, and he certainly won't falter.

"You're trembling," Halle notes. Robin drops his eyes to his hands. Indeed, they are quivering. As though he is cold. But he isn't. The wood in the fireplace cackles as the fire licks it, and a pleasant warmth hovers in the room. "Are you afraid?"

"Yes," he admits.

He is terrified, not simply afraid. "Maybe this is what we have to do," he whispers.

"What do you mean?"

His reply is a single word, yet it carries the significance and peril of a thousand: "Rebel."

* * *

><p>The untold decision was sealed at the District 11 stop of the Victory Tour.<p>

Robin stood, unmoving, mute, before the families of Thresh and Rue. In a numb state between crying and blind anger. Not for them, but for the people who had so greedily stolen from them — those who had bet on Thresh becoming Victor and Rue being the first to fall.

Halle gave a moving speech and did something unexpected, the consequences of which both are about to face.

"I don't regret what I did."

She is being honest; there is nothing to regret in her actions. She is being insincere, also; nothing good has come of her actions.

"Good," Robin asserts, but his heart has plummeted to his feet, and beads of cold sweat embosom on the crook of his neck and his temples.

"I killed someone," soliloquizes in distress. _What about Rue's little sisters? And Thresh's grandmother?_

Silently, Robin asks himself the same questions. "You said you didn't want a rebellion," he tells her, eventually. Giving food to a family that needs it — let alone to _two_, from another district — is certainly perceived by many as an act of kindness. But Robin knows that Snow can read behind the lines and behind these so-called "acts of kindness".

And this is what he read in Halle's impromptu gift: "Look at us — we defy your hate policies. We are united, and _you_ are the enemy."

"Everyone wants a rebellion," Halle says. "But I don't want people to die at our expense..."

"Halle, you didn't — _You_ didn't create the need for a rebellion. _We _didn't create the need for a rebellion. It simply exists."

He is right of course, she thinks. This need has been simmering for years. Inside each one of them. Their "act of unconditional love" was simply the culmination.

"What are we going to do?" she asks. An innocent man was executed in Eleven, and Halle can't afford to think what would happen to Thresh and Rue's families. Because of her "act of kindness".

They idea begins to percolate in the back of her mind, and, as much as she hates it, it is the most logical one.

"Marry me." They are on the train to the Capitol when she makes this suggestion to Robin, enfolded in each other's arms (the nightmares fade away easier when they are together). As soon as the words come out of her mouth, she realizes how they must have sounded. "I mean..."

"I know what you mean. For the audience," Robin agrees. It could be just Halle, but, in her ears, the words sound twisted and laced with... disappointment?

"For the audience," she repeats.

* * *

><p>He proposes to her, and it is glorious — in every aspect.<p>

The crowd goes wild, they completely lose it at the sight of Robin on his knee. He is a better actor than he'd thought. A bright smile spreads across his features — to him, it feels like muscles being involuntarily pulled, a strange and undesired notion, but his face plastered on every screen and monitor is awfully convincing.

Caesar Flickerman looks pleased with himself, as though _he_ created the infamous star-crossed Lovers from District 12. And he did, in a way. After all, didn't the Girl and Boy on Fire allegedly meet each other thanks to their respective reapings? Only another reason to thank the kind and always generous Capitol.

As Robin slips the ring on her finger — a pretty thing; a sizable diamond the color of incandescent coal, flecked with gold and blue — Halle sheds a single tear that doesn't go unnoticed. ("I'm just so overwhelmed and deeply blissful," she gushes when Caesar pats her shoulder in concern.) Robin gazes down at her, just before he leans in for the mandatory kiss, and the chagrin is imprinted in her eyes.

He proposes to her, but it isn't enough.

Weeks later, the announcement is made, and they are going back in the arena.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: <strong>Cold War_


	4. Cold War

__**A/N:** This one is shorter than usual, but what are you gonna do...__

* * *

><p><em><em>this is a cold war, you better know what you're fighting for  this is a cold war — do you know what you're fighting for? / _if you wanna be free, __below the ground's the only place to be / __'cause in this life __you spend time running from depravity  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Cold War<strong>

* * *

><p>Robin is out of the claustrophobic room; away from the desolate cries of his sister, the emptiness of his mother's eyes, the consistent cheers that blare through the television — the incoherent and desperate clamor that invades his ears and pounds on his eardrums, he can't seem to avoid. It's coming from his own mouth, he realizes.<p>

He darts through the dirt road to the Seam as ineffable terror pushes him, urges him forward.

He knows who he is looking for.

_**_–_**_

_It is an odd sound. Like it stems from a dream or a distant memory, and yet it is all too tangible.  
><em>

_Strangled cries and hushed whispers and the recurring, horrifying sound. He knows that he doesn't want to see what is behind the bulk of crowd at the square, he knows that if he does he will regret it.  
><em>

_One step at a time, enclosing himself in a glass case where his surroundings can't touch him, he begins to squish himself himself amongst the bodies of the onlookers. And he makes it, he is in front of them, and he can see the spectacle clearly — no bystander obstructing his view.  
><em>

_The whip slashes through the air, coming down with a stinging blow on the bare back of his best friend, adding a long scar next to an amalgam of blood and flesh.  
><em>

__**_–_**__

She is waiting for him in his old bedroom.**  
><strong>

Their hands move frantically, desperately — like it is the last time they touch each other. And it just might be.

* * *

><p>"If you think about it, we started this long before we ate those berries."<p>

Halle raises her eyes from the bow. For the past hour or so, she has been scrambling with it, but mostly pulling the string too forcefully or too jerkily and injuring herself. Robin has always made it seem so easy. ("Well, you can lift weights. Not many girls can do that." Halle gave him a strange look, and he quickly backtracked: "I mean... you're stronger than most girls, that's all I meant.")

"We did this, how?" she asks wearily. The Career lifestyle doesn't fit her. And she _did _win the 74th Games without any training. Then again, she wasn't alone.

Robin hurls a knife at a makeshift target. "We rebelled by volunteering. Volunteering goes against the very purpose of the Games — it isn't involuntary."

Halle ponders this for a moment. Yes, the districts dread the Capitol, and they dread the Games. The parents live in fear that their children will be picked — and if it isn't this year, it will be the next or the year after that. And maybe this is what Snow and the Capitol want. Fear. Dominance. A cat-and-mouse game. But what if the people of the districts _weren't_ afraid. What if they simply resigned, _wanting_ to be dominated? What if they did not just passively accept the atrocities the Capitol commits — what if they wanted to _partake_?

"Oh, I think it is exactly the opposite," she says. "It is as if you condone what the Capitol is doing to you. It is as if you _want_ to take part in it."

"But it's still a slap in their face," Robin comments, plucking the knife from the wood and getting back into position. "You saved my sister. If it were up to them, she'd be dead."

"She's a child," is all Halle can muster up to say.

"So are we." The knife goes whizzing a few inches left of the tree. "The Capitol doesn't really seem to mind."

* * *

><p>The first time in months that a hint of a smile appears on Halle's lips is on the sole rainy summer day. It is when Haymitch drunkenly staggers into Robin's house. He and Halle are sprawled across two of the wooden chairs that surround the dining table. Beads of sweat are flowing from their foreheads, and their chests are heaving in exhaustion.<p>

"Oh, look who it is —" Halle comments tiredly.

"Where the _fuck_ is my alcohol?"

"Go to hell, Haymitch," Robin grunts. He's had enough of his former mentor's drunken stutter and addiction.

"I threw it away," Halle murmurs quietly, her head hunched. She doesn't bother to lift her gaze and face the old drunk. "It was a waste of space." _Like you_, she added mentally.

"It wasn't yours to throw," Haymitch says stridently. He throws himself down into a chair, placing his dirty feet — Halle notices in disgust that he is wearing no shoes — upon the table. At times like these, she desperately longs for Effie Trinket and her squeamishness; it had a purpose, and it was to keep Haymitch's (awful) drunken self at bay. Neither Halle nor Robin had minded back when it was simply amusing — with everything that is happening now, they can't bear the sight of their sot of a mentor.

"What do you want, Haymitch?" Robin asks tiredly.

"Well, since you are so kind to ask — I want my liquor."

"I told you, Haymitch — threw it away," says Halle. "You won't find any here."

"Fine." There is a pause. "And I suppose you're being... what, useful?" His voice has adopted a loftiness that is almost smug. "Sitting here, ruminating on your impending deaths... Pathetic. At least, I'm having some fun — or _was_, until you decided to be all law abiding and throw my alcohol down the drain."

"It was the fireplace, actually," Halle clarifies, unable to suppress a smile.

"You know, Haymitch, maybe you shouldn't act like such a little cunt —" Halle flinches at the word. "— or else I won't volunteer to save your sorry ass when you're reaped."

Haymitch laughs, an unpleasant, raucous sound. "You're gonna send me to the arena? Oh, well. Let's see _then_ who's gonna save your "other half". There ain't star-crossed lovers if one of them is dead, handsome."

Robin stands up, kicking his chair backwards. "Fuck you, Haymitch," he grunts.

The door has barely shut behind him, when Haymitch turns to Halle. "Don't worry, sweetheart. It'll pass."

"Don't call me sweetheart."

* * *

><p>Haymitch is reaped; Robin volunteers.<p>

He begrudgingly shouts the two words and briskly walks to the stage to stand next to Halle.

The train from the Capitol seems to be faster than the last time, and District 12 disappears as the train speeds up on the winding track.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: <strong>Salt and Lumber _


	5. Interlude: Before

**_prompt: _**_young!katniss & peeta, genderswap.  
><em>

**[missing scenes from Robin and Halle's childhood. Full spectrum of genres. PG.]**

* * *

><p><strong><em>Interlude (Before)<em>**

* * *

><p><strong>At six.<br>**

"I don't wanna go, Papa," Halle Mellark whines, tugging at her father's hand.

Mr. Mellark laughs heartily. "Well, _I_ don't want to listen to your mother, so." **  
><strong>

Halle joins in, understanding the inside joke. "Hey, Papa?" she asks after a while. "Who's that Seamboy?"

"Don't use that word," Mr. Mellark hisses. His wife does it quite often, and unfortunately it's been passed on to their children.

"That one." She points across the schoolyard, to a rangy, olive-skinned boy, whose grey eyes are taking in his surroundings beneath the dark tangle of curls that cover his forehead.

"Oh, that's Robin Everdeen. I was going marry his mother, but she chose a coal miner instead."

"Why'd she choose a coal miner when she could be with you?"

"'Cause when Layton Everdeen sings, even the birds fall silent."

Indeed, later, when the teacher asks who knows the valley song, Robin's hand shoot straight up.

A blond, fair-skinned boy mutters under his breath, "Boys ain't supposed to sing. That's just stupid."

But when he's done, Halle thinks she understands why Robin's mom chose a coal miner instead.

* * *

><p><strong>At seven.<strong>

When you grow up with two brothers, you don't exactly learn to harbor "girly" interests. It's not like the merchant girls have the luxury of, say, elaborate dolls and toy swords and whatnot – like those you see kids from the Capitol have – but Halle's seen girls play with fabric–made dolls (mostly rag, really, because who would spend their precious fabric on toys?). She never got the appeal, but perhaps that is because she never cared much for toys. She prefers frosting and castball. _  
><em>

When Robin Everdeen asks some of the kids from her team to join them, they look at him like he's from the Capitol or just said that District 13 still exists. Really, they just look at him like he's from the Seam, and since they're all merchant kids, that's about the worst thing you can be.

Even in the poorest, most ridiculed district of Panem, having olive skin and dark hair makes you an outcast.

Halle Mellark offers a smile. "You can play with us if you want to."

But Robin is proud, and he won't deign pity.

* * *

><p><strong>At nine.<strong>

Robin rubs the welt on his forearm.

Layton Everdeen doesn't say anything, but a smile's tugging at his mouth. He doesn't want his son to think he's laughing at him, but it's nearly impossible with all the antics he's been pulling today.

"I told you to quit rubbin' the wheal," he says kindly.

Robin glances up with watery eyes. "I'll never get it right, Papa," he whimpers. "How d'you manage to get it right _every time_?" There's a hint of jealousy in his voice, but it's mostly admiration. Robin's father is the best archer he knows. Not that he knows any archers beside Layton and himself – if he can call himself an archer – but, still, his dad is really good.

"Well, I'm older than you by... a lot," he resonates. "And I've practiced more. Okay, try once more."

Robin groans and picks up the wooden bow; he pulls an arrow from the sheath, pulls the string (not too much, because it'll snap, though), and lets the arrow fly.

It misses the makeshift bull's eye by a few inches, but Robin's beaming with pride when his dad pats him on the shoulder and says, "See? You're already getting better."

* * *

><p><strong>At eleven.<strong>

When Robin misses school two days in a row, Halle soaks up all the courage she can muster and marches to Madge Undersee's desk. Madge is Mayor Undersee's daughter and one of the few people who seem to genuinely like Robin, so she must know what's happened.

"Didn't you hear about the mining accident?" Madge asks sorrowfully.

Halle nods. Like most people from the Seam, Robin's dad is a coal miner. According to her mother it's what "lazy Seam–people chose to do". She also told her that accidents happen all the time in the mines, because no one takes the necessary precautions, but they mostly transpire so that the miners receive an allowance.

"The deep mine collapsed; Robin's dad was killed," Madge explains. "There's going to be a ceremony today at the Justice Building, a– a memorial."

Halle drops her gaze to the tiled floor. "That's terrible," she says quietly. And she walks away.

It occurs to her much later that she didn't give condolences.

It's months later when she throws the bread at him, and he clings to it like a lifeline.

* * *

><p><strong>At thirteen.<strong>

The first time Robin walks into the bakery with Gayle Hawthorne, Halle is arranging the freshly-baked slices of bread in neat stacks. She has her back turned on them, and she's too preoccupied with her work to pay attention to the clang of bells when the door opens.**  
><strong>

Someone clears their throat.

"Oh, sorry," Halle murmurs hastily as she spins around and comes face to face with the lanky, olive-skinned boy and the tall and sturdily-built girl.

Robin Everdeen holds up a burlap sack. "I'm here to trade," he explains, "but I can come back later, when Mr. or Mrs. Mellark are here."

"Dad's sick with the flu today, and there ain't a chance Mom will fill in for him." Robin shifts awkwardly, caught between staying and leaving. "I'm familiar with the process," Halle reassures.

"Right." Robin places the burlap sack on the wooden counter; he pulls the string that keeps it closed and reveals two squirrels. They're skinned and look unwounded. Robin seems to have inherited his father's archery talent.

"Alright. Two loaves of brown bread or two rolls and a cheese bun. I make those."

"Then I'll take the latter."

"Excellent. Nice doing business with you."

While Gayle haggles about the worth of the five trouts she caught today, Robin vaguely notices that Halle Mellark may be the prettiest merchant girl he's seen.

* * *

><p><strong>At fifteen.<strong>

"What about her?"**  
><strong>

Robin shakes his head. Amused, he asks, "Why do you care so much about who I find attractive?"

Delly Cartwright suppresses a smile. "C'mon, Everdeen. There _has _to be a girl – beside myself – that you like."

"I have stuff to be worried about," Robin says, attempting to evade further questioning. "I can't afford to think about girls."

"Oh, Robin," says Delly endearingly. "All boys think about girls." She winks, and Robin's certain that if his skin was lighter, his blush would have a five mile radius. That would be the moment when Delly asked about Gayle.

Sure enough, Delly gushes happily, "What about Gayle? She's beautiful."

"She's my best friend," Robin says dryly.

"_Exactly__._ Wouldn't it be amazing if you guys started seeing each other?"

"Let's have a deal, okay? When you find a boyfriend, I'll start 'thinking about girls'."

The truth is that Robin already _does_ think about girls. In more ways than what would be considered chaste. Sometimes it's Gayle – which he tells himself is natural, since they spend so much time together. Really, if he'd ever imagine being with someone like that, it'd be Gayle. Though he doesn't intend to ever marry, let alone have children.

Of course, there are more ways to_ be with_ a girl that don't involve children, and Robin would know that if he were Halle. (Her brothers rarely talk to her anymore, unless it's when they tease her about stuff she doesn't quite understand yet.)

When Delly moves on to a different subject – much to his relief – Robin catches himself stealing glances at Halle Mellark, surrounding by her group of friends.

He's too guilty to admit to Delly – even to himself – that he thinks of her in more ways than what would be considered chaste.


End file.
